


The Tryst

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Gen, I really have no idea what to tag this., M/M, What Have I Done, i have no idea what this is, mild and gentle D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes does not send people out into the field until he actually understands what they are and what they do. That is complicated when the agent he intends to send out is Irene Adler. </p><p>This is erotic without being sex, it's D/s without being D/s, it's professionalism without being at all professional. It's weird as cats in race-around-chasing-ghosts mode. It's weird as penguins tapdancing. It's just--it's erotica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tryst

They studied each other warily, two predators caught on the same turf. Mycroft blinked, lazy, slow, refusing to concede he was outside his own comfort zone, outside his own territory, and outside his own sense of control.

Irene Adler blinked back. She sat, regally clothed, in a chair like a throne, in a beam of light streaming down from what looked for all the world like a round window quartered by a white crossed frame. Mycroft, no fool, noted the excellence of her costuming, her set design, her lighting. He also noted that the window was assuredly false, there being no possible exterior wall in this portion of Adler’s place of business.

“Well, then, Miss Adler,” he said. “Shall we review terms?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes.” She nodded her head. Her hair was braided into a shining coronet threaded with gold and garnet ribbons: her crowning glory. The sweep of hair away from her face formed waves, framing features as cool and resolute as his own. She was unintimidated.

He refused to be less so.

“We’re supposedly allies, now,” he said, allowing a tone of cranky peevishness to leak into his voice. “You might wish to end your efforts to ‘put me in my place.’ At least until the process begins.”

“It’s not a ‘process,’ it’s a trust,” she said.

“A tryst, more like.”

Her mouth, dark and red as garnets, flicked. “That, too.”

“That only.”

“No.” She was resolute. “It is a matter of trust, Mr. Holmes.”

“And if I do not trust you?”

“Then you should not be here.”

“And if I am here because I do not trust you?”

She laughed. “Perhaps I shall make you.” She studied him. “I can, you know.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“That’s your job. Mine is to be trustworthy.”

“Which explains so vividly how you came to be in this position.”

She smiled, and leaned lazily back in her throne, one leg sliding forward. The heavy folds of silk flowed over her thigh and waterfalled down over her knee to rest in ripples over her instep. “Think about it before you congratulate yourself, Mr. Holmes. I am a dominatrix who arrived here because I could be trusted.”

Her implications poured over him as her skirts flowed over her legs—liquid, silken, with a supple texture woven in. He could drape the windows of her room in his Mind Palace in that slubbed silk glory.

She was a dominatrix who never resorted to blackmail except once—and that once was not turned against her actual clients, but against her nation, when she had demanded only to be left alone. Had he left things as they stood—had his superiors been willing to leave things as they stood—she would have remained the most successful dominatrix of her age, with a spotless reputation for protecting her clients. Only when he had acted against her—allowed the United States to act against her—had the game changed, and though she and her ally, Moriarty, had foreseen that shift, nonetheless the aftermath all hung on his transgression, not hers.

She was a dominatrix who sat free, on the very edge of becoming one of his agents. Because she was, historically, reliably trustworthy. There had been no copies of her files, hidden and put into play when she lost the chess game with him and with Sherlock. She had not acted against him—or used information to force any of her clients to shelter her.

She had protected her clients even after he and his people had ransacked her phone files, doing what she could to veil names, blur identities, and spare her customers shame, humiliation—and coercion from MI6.

She was here—and he sat on the low bench below her dais, waiting to play through the final stages of their mutual exploration—because she was trustworthy.

He nodded, reluctantly ceding her the point. “In spite of that,” he said, softly, “I do not trust you.”

“You will.”

She was a beautiful woman. He was not a man easily drawn to beautiful women.

He sighed. “Where do we begin?”

“That depends very much on you,” she said. “What do you need? What do you dream of?”

He scowled. “I do not normally attend professionals of your trade,” he said, sharply. “I’m not a masochist.”

She laughed, a bright sound as sudden as bird-cry in the jungle. She shook her head. “The Iceman—whose one weakness is love of his brother, Sherlock Holmes? Not a masochist? Try again—you could make a fortune in stand-up.”

“I at least come by the bond honestly,” he snapped. “You? In bondage to Sherlock thanks to infatuation, as I recall, yes? Ironic—thus is the mistress mastered.”

“Yes, yes,” she drawled. “He’s brilliant, and damaged, and impossible not to love. I agree entirely. Still, I am not in love with him.”

“And, yet, you are his lover.”

“I have made love to him. There’s a difference.” She smiled, a feline smile of predatory power. “He had things he no longer wished to remain ignorant of. I had the capacity to teach him.”

“Karachi must have suffered a heat wave, that night.”

“No. But I ensured your brother quite lost his head—in gratitude for ensuring I didn’t lose mine.” Her chin rose, and her eyes slitted. “I can do you the same favor, Mr. Holmes…if you will cooperate. Again—where we start depends on your wishes and dreams, not mine.”

“I don’t wish for whips, or chains, or flogs, or pain, or shame, or any of your stock in trade, Miss Adler. The best you can do is demonstrate in the knowledge I will not succumb.”

She smiled. “I do not specialize in—what was that list? ‘Whips, or chains, or flogs, or pain, or shame?’ Those aren’t my stock in trade. I am a dominatrix.”

He frowned, and waited.

She shook her head. “Are you sure you’re the clever one? I am a dominatrix.” She clucked her tongue and sat straight, eyes suddenly fierce and brilliant. “Translate.”

“A ruler. The feminine form of the Latin, ‘Dominus.’ Lord.”

“What do I do, Mr. Holmes? What do I offer?”

He considered, and said, quietly, “Control. You provide control.”

She nodded, her sharp little chin barely lowered before rising high again. “How do you dream of letting go of control, Mr. Holmes?”

Before he could even think, it breathed out of him, sad and weary. “Safely.”

His answer made her pause as she sampled it, tasted it, let it run like silk in her own mind. “Ah,” she said, and smiled. She nodded. “You know my security, here, yes?”

He nodded. He and his team had reviewed her security systems over and over, adding in layers of their own. Then, before coming here, Mycroft had added still more layers, known only to himself. He was safe, here, if safety was ever possible.

“Yes.”

“You know I won’t betray you?”

He considered what he knew of her faithfulness, and nodded, warily. “Yes.”

“You’ve taken precautions of your own?”

“Of course. I’m hardly an idiot.”

Her eyes softened. “No—you’re a genius among idiots,” she said, and then smiled mischievously as the insult hidden in the compliment occurred to him. “You’ve lived in terror for years. Decades. What kind of fool does that, Mr. Holmes.”

“One in my profession,” he said, grim and stately.

“All the more idiotic for failing to apply to one of mine,” she countered. “What do you want, Mr. Holmes?”

He closed his eyes and let his own unrealized dreams drift softly. Nakedness without fear. Touch without suspicion. Kindness. Tenderness. To be vulnerable and still trust.

There were faces and bodies that went with the fantasy—but Irene Adler could hardly provide those. She as the wrong gender entirely…and she could no more pass for the very few men he truly loved and longed for than she could flap her wings and fly away.

“What do you want?”

“To be safe, and loved, and…”

She waited while he struggled with the lump that suddenly filled his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, angrily, when he’d regained control. “I don’t…”

“It’s part of the process,” she said.

“I thought it was a trust.”

She nodded, then said, softly, “A tryst. Yes.” She looked at him, then, and said, “Why don’t you get more comfortable, Mr. Holmes? Those suits are beautiful, but so heavy. It’s not polite to wear your armor to a tryst.”

“And you?” he snapped.

“The less I wear the more I am prepared for war, Mr. Holmes. Best leave me my silks.”

He considered. “You know I am doing this because I won’t send you out into the field until I understand what you do?”

“Yes. I also know you won’t understand until you submit.”

“I’m hardly a submissive.”

“Even the dominant must submit, sometimes. You don’t need to be submissive to submit—or to need to, on occasion.”

He considered, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Annoyed, he concluded her logic was impeccable, in its own irksome way. He stood and removed his jacket, folding it neatly and laying it on the bench. His hands rose to his tie. He unpinned the tie pin—an old fashioned long pin with a cap to cover the point. The head was a pearl. He held it cradled in his palm, unwilling to put it down on the sleek wood, where it could so easily be knocked off, or forgotten.

“Here,” the Woman said. “I’ll take care of it.” She gestured for him to come forward, then took a deep-bowled blown-glass goblet from the table at her side. “Put it here.”

He stood in front of her, and dropped it in, listening to the delicate chink as it hit the glass.

She held the goblet out to him. “Hold this.”

He took it, and watched as she leaned forward and gently undid his watch chain, slipping the t-bar from his waistcoat buttonhole and gathering the watch from the watch pocket. She held them gently in her hand, and tipped them into the glass. He felt them land, eased in gently enough not to crack their container. She studied him—found a small pin on the breast of his waistcoat, and unpinned that, too.

“St. Michael?” she asked.

“St. George.” He risked a smile. “They both have swords and dragons. The mistake is easy to make.”

She laughed, softly. “No. I should have realized. Who else but St. George, after all, for The British Government? If you’d give me the glass, now?”

He returned it to her, by no means unaware that she was gently easing him into simple obedience. But her requests were reasonable, and gently offered. “Now?”

“Mr. Holmes, stripping down to your waistcoat is hardly removing your armor.”

He found himself smiling at her. With an intentionally melodramatic sigh, he returned to the bench and his dignified strip tease.

Waistcoat; shirt. A pause to remove his cufflinks and offer them to her. He stood in front of her, his shirt open, his cuffs flapping at his wrists, his thin vest showing, and held out his cupped hand. She offered her own, and he tipped the gold and mother-of-pearl cufflinks into her palm. She smiled at him—and he found himself smiling in return. “Back to work?” he said.

She chuckled, and waved her empty hand toward the bench. “Yes, yes. Get on with it. Unless you want to take all day?”

“Hardly,” he huffed—but found himself laughing. He stood in front of the bench and continued.

Shirt. Vest. Shoes. Trousers. Socks and sock garters. Finally, he was down to light cotton boxers. He looked up at her. “Must I?”

She shrugged. “It’s your armor, Mr. Holmes. You know better than I do what goes with the set.”

He considered, and with an unsettled sigh drew the pants off, and was naked. He looked up at her.

She smiled kindly, and drew a fat, solid-looking pillow from somewhere beside the throne. She slipped her feet apart, and leaned over, brushing her skirts back and creating a place between her feet for the pillow. She looked up and beckoned. “Come here, my dear.”

He walked across the floor and stepped the single step up the dais to stand in front of her.

“Kneel.” It was a command, but by no means a harsh one. He considered, cautious and uncertain. Obedience would place him close—his body between her long, slim thighs, his cock pressing against a bolster of padded upholstery hidden behind her silk skirts, his hips cresting the top of the seat, his head roughly even with her breasts. He was tall, and she was short. At last he nodded, and knelt.

He could smell her perfume, he thought. Something surprisingly clean and tart, rather than heavy and floral and musky…not that she needed musk. Kneeling where he was, he could smell the warm and weighty scent of her body—a blend of sweat and musk, the very faintest suggestion of urine overwhelmed by soap and her own natural secretions.

Warm, he thought. She smelled warm in a way men didn’t. Yeasty, like bread dough rising. Sweet—again, like bread dough. Brioche, he thought, feeling a bit silly and Proustian. At least she didn’t smell of Madeleines.

She looked down at him. She was still fully clothed, in all her queenly splendor. Her braided crown of hair glowed. Kneeling where he was, he could feel the heat of the light that poured through from above, and he imagined the shadow of the frame forming a cross on his naked back. She caressed the side of his face and smiled at him. “Good—very good,” she husked, and then slipped her hands down his arms, pulling gently until he gave her his hands. She kissed them, dropping her kisses over the backs, then on his knuckles. It wasn’t sexual, or sentimental, but calm and quiet. She drew his hands around her, then, slipping them behind her back, pulling his body forward until his head rested between her breasts. She leaned back, her hand on his shoulders, pulling him with her until he leaned against her.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“I already have,” he murmured.

Her hand stroked his hair. “Good. So very good,” she said, and settled. He could feel her relax beneath him. Her hands stroked his shoulders, kneaded the tendons of his neck, raked through the hair at the back of his skull.

He sighed, feeling himself relax. “Is this it?” he whispered. “Is this all it is?”

She laughed and his head jigged with the bubbling bob of her diaphragm. “This is it, Mr. Holmes. At the bottom of everything. Behind every whip-stroke, forged into every handcuff, worked into every last fantasy. This is it. This is all.”

“I see,” he said—and he did. “It’s…” He couldn’t say it.

“Say it,” she ordered, gently.

“It’s safe,” he said. “It’s kind.”

“Yes,” she said. “The ones who want true unkindness can find it on the street corner, in the pub, at the hands of people who are supposed to love them. It’s not hard to find true cruelty. It’s kindness that’s difficult. Kindness that lets you give away your own controls and boundaries? Priceless.”

“Which doesn’t stop you from charging a steep price,” he pointed out—but his eyes were still shut, and he could feel an unexpected longing pooling in his stomach. Not, he thought, for sex, but for something. Something more….

She held him. The pillow was thick, and kept his knees from hurting. His weight lay supported by his legs, by the chair, by her torso beneath him. Her touch was gentle.

He felt something—a heavy sensuality—descend on him. Her hand found his jaw, and she lifted his head. She lowered her lips onto his, and they kissed. He did not love women—and, yet, then and there, he loved her. He loved the kiss. He loved her fingers on his skin. His cock stirred softly, not rising, but not indifferent, either.

“You’re wonderful,” she said. “A wonderful kisser. I am impressed, Mr. Holmes.”

He felt the oddest pride stir, and his ego rejoiced even as she let his head return to the nest of her breasts. He sighed and settled, pulling her close, cherishing the warmth, the soft comfort of her belly beneath his, the delicacy of her bones held in his arms. He felt strong and powerful and protective—vulnerable and weak and sheltered. He felt—at ease. He breathed deeply, and drifted….

When he woke, he was embarrassed.

“No,” she said, helping him rise. “You needed that.” She smiled at him. “I provide what people need, Mr. Holmes. They can trust me to do that. Given time, they can learn to ask for more—complicated—needs.”

“I’m not a masochist,” he said again, but with a friendly smile this time, not a defensive scowl. “Not a masochist, or a submissive. I can’t think of anything I’d ask for.”

“No? Give yourself time,” she said. “Perhaps this—all of what you felt today—but with someone who attracts you. Someone you can trust, with me making sure you’re both safe.”

He swallowed, and again images drifted through his mind.

“Think about it,” she said, mischief dancing in her eyes. “To lean against me—as he leans against you. Touches you. Makes love to you…”

“You are a dangerous woman,” he said, blood drumming in his ears.

“That’s why you’re hiring me,” she pointed out.

“No,” he said. “That’s what you can offer us. But we’re hiring you, because we can trust you.”

“So you can,” she said, and rose from her throne and came down with the goblet full of gold and pearls. She helped him don his armor and knelt to help him put on his shoes, before rising gracefully. 

They stood, looking at each other.

“If you ever have need of me,” she said.

“I’ll know how to reach you.”

She saw him to the door.

He turned. “Lestrade,” he said. “No one else. None I’d trust. Not like I trust you. It would be Lestrade. But I don’t think it can be done. I don’t think he’s available.”

She nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out,” she said.

"Gratias agbo tibi, mi domina."  _Thank you, my lady._

"Et tu, dominus," she replied with a smile.  _And you, my lord._

He nodded and left, but his heart was both still and wild, both at once, for she had mastered their tryst—and he trusted her to carry his longing further.


End file.
